Devon, August 2021

After the uncertainty of 2020, a small window of opportunity opened up in Phil's 2021 calendar over the bank holiday weekend at the end of August. Naturally, we were both more than keen to resume 'normal' operations, and I geared up for the long-delayed trip to Devon.

Arriving during the heat of the late afternoon, there was time for a quick look at one of the likely fishing locations. After watching a huge number of very small mullet being fed and traumatised in equal measure by duck-feeding families throwing bread at them, I notices some small disturbances under nearby overhanging trees. Out came the catapult, and a few well-aimed morsels were quickly devoured with a significant degree of enthusiasm by a much larger fish; not a bad start, to push the enthusiasm levels well up into the red.

On to Operations Central, and it was really great to see Phil still alive, despite the best efforts of the bat-munching Chinese, and there was a high degree of anticipation as we greedily stuffed down a veritable Everest of almost fluorescent pasta on the Friday evening.

Day 1. The next morning started bright and mildly cool, and we headed off in a westerly direction, welcomed by the sight of the multiple black and white flags of St Piran on the "we b'aint f***ing Janners" side of the river. A brief recce to identify points of ingress led us to the conclusion that we would have to march through a person's garden and climb over their fence to reach a point where a cyclist had mystifyingly appeared previously, so we wisely opted for Route B... on account that it would have been difficult getting the gear over the fence....

Arriving at the bankside, the sun in the east was starting to warm the day, and we looked out upon a glass-flat surface, the occasional ripples hinting at the fish starting to move in with the tide. There wasn't much water yet, so in went some groundbait and we went walkabout, along the shoreline towards the main channel. A few fish were grubbing about in the heavier parts of the weedline and surprised us with several lightning bites before seemingly melting away, as mullet are prone to do. The water was rising quite rapidly, although not a very large tide, and we retreated back to the bags to concentrate on the 'long game'.

After a while of staring at it, my float suddenly wasn't floating, and the line, previously perpendicular to the bank, was now making its way steadily seaward. Despite some logs in the water, which the fish seemed to be worryingly aware of, the first mullet was soon in the net, and we were up and running. A modest fish, but my first in Cornwall since the 1990s... so, pretty much counts as two, in my book.

Soon, Phil was into one, too, and once it was safely resting in the net, it had started to feel like a very good day.

On to the second venue, and things were warming up nicely. Despite a veritable plethora of swans, ducks and screeching seagulls (various), there were some fish in the shallows, and it was looking promising. A group of mullet were quickly onto some floating pieces of bread, and it felt like it was only a matter of time before one made an error of judgement. It wasn't long before our prayers were answered, and with a significant commotion as I struck, the familiar drama began. For a while, the other fish continued to feed as I negotiated with it over the netting arrangements; I have to say that it was being a bit unreasonable, and despite its apparent lack of weight, still put up a more than respectable resistance in the shallow water. Inevitably, all other activity suddenly stopped, and that had pretty much killed our chances. Still, another fish was in the bag, a very good start to the trip.

Time to put some polish onto proceedings, and so it was off to Ron's, with the Big Tasty back on the menu, a real no-brainer.

Day 2. Another great day, weather-wise, and off to a coastal venue where success has previously eluded me. For a while, there was not much by way of encouragement, and then myriad small mullet were attacking the loose feed. I could see the odd larger fish down much deeper, but these were few, and getting past the cloud of greedy smaller fish wasn't happening. Out of the blue, I had a fast bite from something deeper down, out of sight in the murky water, and I struck, expecting a solid 'thud'. Oddly, there was none, no sensation at all, and my brand new line, installed only days before, had apparently parted with absolutely no feeling of resistance - must have nicked it pretty badly, earlier in the session. Thankfully, I didn't have too long to dwell on the lost fish, as Phil was soon enjoying a well deserved hookup.

When all opportunities appeared to be dwindling, we spent a short time having a look at a nearby channel where a few fish were still moving about amongst the bladder wrack. We were confronted by the extremely sorry sight of a sunken boat in a worse state of disrepair than the Titanic. This maritime disaster had reportedly been the cause of some distress to its owner when he discovered it had sunk, as witnessed by the Stinton Brothers earlier in the year. Mark and Alan had fished here in June, and their session had been briefly interrupted by the alarming ravings of said owner, whose loud and expletive-laden outburst almost certainly must have had them typing three 9s into their phones, just in case; thankfully, Cap'n Unhappy then departed without further incident. Anyway, here was the object of his concern, and having clearly been at the bottom of the channel since 1870, it didn't look too promising for any future nautical adventures that he may have had planned...

Our next endeavour was at a spot I'd never visited before, and after a long and hilly walk, I was instantly filled with optimism by the sight that greeted us. In the weedline were a number of fish moving about, only a few feet from the shore; there were a few dramatic boils, as fish took unsunk bread bits off the surface, and a hookup seemed imminent. The fish soon became aware of our presence, the activity seemed to fade, and I diverted my attention to a good number of mullet which were active further out in the channel. It soon became apparent that these were mostly very small, although a couple of better fish put in a brief appearance, and again a hookup was almost inevitable. Phil opted for a leger, and promptly received an encouraging amount of attention, for a short while - it seemed only a matter of time...

With the sightings of fish becoming fewer and fewer, and the water dropping down dramatically, I had one last-ditch attempt, a short distance downstream. Despite getting close up and personal with a few good fish, their interest was fleeting, and I was soon casting at a puddle next to some drying mud; it was clearly time to admit defeat.

It was ultimately very satisfying that Phil had managed a fish on a day when it just wasn't happening, and so we offered our respectful nod to tradition with another gourmet feast, courtesy of the Big Golden M. It just had to be Big Mac for me, this time, the first 500+cal of that particular goodliness since 06/02/20, and in the moment, it was like Dr Lecter meeting up with a past acquaintance.

Day 3. A visit to a venue that has treated us both kindly on previous occasions, and we set about it with the usual degree of optimism, which instantly fades as soon as you start fishing and don't get a bite within the first two minutes. Pushing on past that particular idiocy, I could see quite a few fish that were probably thinlips, and so I had a go for those with the spinner. The usual happened - nothing - so I switched over to the float, while Phil went off to recce the Swim of Death, a legendary suicide location with boats, ropes and bladder wrack... and, of course, loads of large mullet.

After a while, I noticed a few thicklips starting to move through, just beyond the weedline, and Phil returned, announcing that he'd just lost one, and that would be that, for the moment - further opportunities would probably not be forthcoming at the aforementioned 'SoD'. While I was trying my best to offer the appropriate condolences, with the usual ineptitude, my float disappeared, and the rod took on a bit of a bend. Liveliness and determination on the part of the fish were ably countered by a good deal of anxiety and downright clumsiness on my part, and after the usual three-legged race, it was a huge relief to see a solid-looking mullet resting in the shallows, with Phil attending to the net while I readied the camera.

There followed a brief lack of activity, and then it seemed that there was some skulduggery going on under an overhanging bit of scenery, and so we directed our best efforts towards the signs of feeding. A seemingly impossible cast that surprisingly wasn't, in reality, and several fast bites were missed. Soon after that, we sadly had to part company, when an issue arose that required Phil's attention.

I fished on, and for a while again, there wasn't much happening, although I was still greatly encouraged by what had gone before. Then, the inevitable happened, and I hooked one right under the overhang, having let the float drift into an almost suicidally stupid position. Some uncomfortably serious and immediate heaving was the order of the day, and I was more than surprised when it didn't come off, and it was suddenly out in open water - in this instance, 'open' meaning 'infested with bladder wrack'. My luck held, and there was a second photo opportunity to be enjoyed - by me, anyway... the fish, maybe not so much...

Despite the hooked fish, there were still some disturbances indicative of feeding mullet, and soon, I was into another, this time a very small one - cheeky little blighter. There was a bit of a lull after that - missed bites, periods of inactivity, but it was a great day to be out, and the captures so far had put a bit of a shine on proceedings.

I was beginning to think that it was 'all done', and the water was rapidly disappearing, and then the usual happened - a bite, when packing up was looking like the best option. Again from the same seemingly idiotic spot, it quickly became an almost identical rerun of the first fish - heave / hold, coax into the open, flail at it incompetently with the net, and... relax. Another stocky fish, that very much gave as good as it got.

Not long after that, Phil reappeared bearing gifts - the best The Colonel has on offer, the veritable epitome of chickeny excellence. We enjoyed some finger lickin' goodness - just because the motto has been dropped, it's still 100% true - then hiked off for one last roll of the dice. Back at Squawky Nuisance Bird Central, there were few signs of anything to fish for, and we were repeatedly distracted by the antics of a small diving duck, which created a disturbance that looked infuriatingly like a surfacing mullet, each time it dived.

There was a growing realisation that we were done for another year, but it had been a very good few days, and had definitely ticked all the right boxes, as always. Thanks Phil, quality time spent.